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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29844687">Wishing To Be Virtous</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/number_of_the_beast_is_666/pseuds/number_of_the_beast_is_666'>number_of_the_beast_is_666</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Musketeer March 2021 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Musketeers (2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Mostly fluff but some angsty thinking, Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:46:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,533</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29844687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/number_of_the_beast_is_666/pseuds/number_of_the_beast_is_666</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Musketeer March 2021 Day 4: "Hand It Over"</p><p>Just time on an assignment and Athos' appreciation. (Set sometime after Knight Takes Queen S1EP9 but before the next episode.)</p><p> </p><p>Title from "Tenderness" by Jameson Fitzpatrick.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aramis | René d'Herblay &amp; d'Artagnan &amp; Athos | Comte de la Fère &amp; Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay &amp; d'Artagnan &amp; Athos | Comte de la Fère &amp; de Tréville &amp; Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay/d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Musketeer March 2021 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189571</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wishing To Be Virtous</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hand it over.”</p><p>“Hand what over?”</p><p>Athos levels a glare at the smiling man, a look that would be intimidating if not for the saccharine affection in his eyes.</p><p>“Porthos.”</p><p>His tone is low , but light; once again, he is betrayed by how he can’t seem to help but radiate fondness, but Porthos thinks that they probably all do after the few days they’ve had.</p><p>A small part of him thinks that it’s purposeful, them being sent on this mission, and has since they got the orders from Treville.</p><p> </p><p>A retrieval and guard duty for a goldsmith coming from Marseille, two weeks’ ride there and back.</p><p>No large threat, no plots or treachery, just a rich man needing safe passage from any thieves or bandits on his way to Paris to become the royal goldsmith.</p><p>d’Artagnan, understandably worried for his recent commission, had immediately asked if they’d fallen out of regard with Treville for any unknown reason, as such a low-priority, and frankly boring, mission was usually assigned to those Musketeers who had done something to deserve unfavourable treatment.</p><p>Treville had just laughed and reassured them that it was a mission that necessitated, at least, four fine Musketeers willing to make the journey, a look in his eye that told them this was a favour and to not waste it.</p><p>Aramis had been the first to understand, had said he understood, bid Treville a good day and left to make ready his things.</p><p>Aramis better than anyone had wanted a break from peril, from royalty, and from Paris, even if only for a couple of weeks of travel. He was the one who reassured d’Artagnan in the garrison courtyard as they waited for Athos to leave Treville’s office, reassured him that they were not being punished, and that it was quite the opposite really.</p><p>Their captain knows the streets of Paris, the constant noise and violence and squalor, knows the toll it takes on a man.</p><p>He’d seen the lines carved into Aramis’ brow when they were called to the palace, the tense looks Athos gives him in those moments.</p><p>He’d seen the ever-deepening bags beneath d’Artagnan’s eyes and Porthos’ struggle to regain his composure after being pulled, rather literally, into a brawl he had aimed to break up, anger staining his normally cheerful countenance.</p><p>It just so happened that an assignment befitting his requirements, of low-risk activity and would last longer than a week, fell into his lap, and if he could afford to send a cohort of four men instead of the requested two, who would send complaint?</p><p> </p><p>“Porthos.”</p><p>Six days into the journey, the man in question has a mischievous glint in his eyes, face flushing with happiness and cold, water droplets hanging from his beard, left from his turn in the refreshingly cold river in which they’d washed the musty sweat of sleep from themselves in.</p><p>Porthos holds one hand behind his back and the other up in front of him, open and with his palm facing Athos in a mock gesture of innocence.</p><p>When he grins, his teeth match his white shirt and the pure joy in his face makes Athos’ chest feel a bit tighter.</p><p>“Athos, do you really think we’d hold up a mission to pull childish pranks? You really think so little of us?”</p><p>Aramis speaks seriously but anyone who knows him can hear the smile behind his words and can see the quirk of his mouth that is him trying to stifle a smirk.</p><p>He catches Athos’ eye, who turns around to face him to deliver a truly scolding look, but the second his back is turned, Porthos throws his prize from behind his back to d’Artagnan.</p><p>d’Artagnan is still standing in the widest part of the river in his damp shirt and breeches after his impromptu bath when Porthos nudged him off his perch by the stream edge. The memory makes Athos’ ribcage tighten on his heart just that bit more.</p><p>He hides their prize behind his back with all the subtlety of a child caught sneaking food to a stray, looking into the pebbled bed of the river with eager interest as Athos whips his head around at the movement from the corner of his eye with suspicion clear on his face.</p><p>Porthos reveals his empty hands with a flourish and Athos’ eyes flick over to d’Artagnan, the shadow of a smile hidden under his mustache.</p><p>He walks past Porthos, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Aramis that Porthos is sure was intended to be scary but just looks smitten, and stops at the edge of the water, ignored d’Artagnan, who is apparently enthralled by the debris carried by the lively current.</p><p>When Athos clears his throat, loudly, he jerks his head up as if startled by the Musketeer’s presence, his expression like a bad play actor, amusement barely hidden under a poor facsimile of innocence.</p><p>“Athos! What can I do for you?”</p><p>Words forced out from a plastered-on smile, his voice pitches up sharply on Athos’ name, eliciting a round of laughter that sounds suspiciously like giggles from Porthos and Aramis, making Athos press his lips together to suppress his own.</p><p>“Would you like to be more mature than your senior Musketeers?”</p><p>Porthos’ hand across Aramis’ mouth doesn’t do much to muffle the scoff of indignation at being called a senior, laughter bubbling out of them both at the childish absurdity of the action, breaking any remaining cool of d’Artagnan’s self-expression as his mock-seriousness descends into snorting laughter.</p><p>Athos makes a move to grab d’Artagnan’s arm, hoping to pull his hands within reaching distance but d’Artagnan leans away from it, and takes a step back, further into the river, causing Athos to over-lean and to lose his balance for a moment, jerking backwards gracelessly in his fruitless effort.</p><p>“You could always, you know, come in after me. Enjoy the river. Your boots wouldn’t mind a rinse.”</p><p>The humour in d’Artagnan’s voice burns like a great hearth in Athos’ chest, pleasantly warm through his body, not dulled even when d’Artagnan stroke out of the river, splashing water over Athos as he moves past.</p><p>He pauses at the river edge for a moment, watching the path of ripples d’Artagnan walked fade in a dizzying pattern of spiralling circles, and, when he turns after several long seconds, d’Artagnan has taken his place opposite to Aramis where he stands at Porthos’ left flank.</p><p>Porthos is the only one who’s actually watching him, a curious expression on his face, with d’Artagnan holding his weight on Porthos’ shoulder whilst he wrestles his trousers onto his still-wet skin and Aramis not even facing him, attention focused on his horse’s bridle, and the way the even just stand in each other's space makes him feel choked from the way his chest clenches agonisingly.</p><p>Porthos keeps looking and Athos, drawn like a star falling to the pull of gravity, takes two quick steps forward, jerking to a halt after only a split second.</p><p>Porthos’ expression changes, almost imperceptibly, so subtle Athos can’t even identify what changes; maybe he tenses a little, or maybe some muscle relaxes, but he’s drawn again, slower steps this time, but just as sure of the need to be <em> closer </em>.</p><p>He stops directly in front of Porthos, staring up at him, head tilted up to a degree just this side of uncomfortably vulnerable to look at the taller man’s face.<br/>That degree of vulnerability burns in hot shame and embarrassment as scorchingly hot as his chest, which Athos is sure must set his skin alight with fevered heat it feels so fiercely hot.</p><p>When Porthos’ hand comes to rest on the side of Athos’ neck, he doesn’t seem to flinch away from some hellish heat, and he doesn’t seem to grimace, face not turning pained and drawn, so Athos figures he’s not about to turn to ash and hot coals.</p><p>He doesn’t focus on Porthos hand for too long as d’Artagnan’s arm is slung over his shoulder, hot like a line drawn in gunpowder,  and then, the final line of searing heat, Aramis’ arm wraps around his waist from the other side.</p><p>The final vicious clamp around his chest came as Aramis finally revealed their prize, and does not hand it over, but places Athos’ hat back on his head, gentle like the Archbishop crowning the King, reverent in a tone of love so gentle it threatened to destroy the precarious tower of shards of his shattered rib cage.<br/>He knows this feeling, has felt it before, with <em> her </em> , but now, here, with <em> his Musketeers </em>, he doesn’t feel the trepidation he felt then. There are none of the moments of cold shocking doubt in the times when they are apart, when her spell was not able to reach him.<br/>This is so far from that harsh feeling of distress, this is bright and reliable, and he isn’t <em> alone </em>.</p><p>Now he doesn’t feel struck-down, doesn’t like he’s been damned before he could make his case.</p><p>He feels like a chance, and a hope, even if that hope wears the same fleur-de-lis he once fled from, he can find the same love somewhere that won’t be corrupted.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if whilst reading you thought to yourself "was athos high?" just know. Yeah. yeah.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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